


moving was a matter of not keeping still

by blackkat



Series: Tumblr Drabbles [71]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Bodyswap, Dimension Travel, M/M, Or is it more soulswap?, Vaguely a magical school!AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2019-02-02 18:35:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12732033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: Tobirama dies beneath a falling sword. He wakes up somewhere...else.





	moving was a matter of not keeping still

**Author's Note:**

> For a prompt that I got maybe two years ago on my Tumblr and have since predictably lost, but the gist was: Tobirama from the canon universe gets bodyswapped into a world of magic, only his has never worked there. He's bitter and angry and constantly harassed because of it, much to the fury of Madara, who's in love with him but has never told him. Or something to that effect.

Tobirama dies beneath a falling sword, too close for even his speed to escape despite the fact that he’s going to try, and the blade is already wet with his blood. There is a press of bodies around him, anger boiling, chakra bright and blinding, and his last thought is of Saru, of Kagami, of Hotaru and Homura and Danzō and Torifu. All he can hope is that he bought them enough time to escape.

And then—

There's a twist like falling from a great height, a rush, an explosion of pain in his head and along his spine. He cries out, startled that he can, and something _lurches_.

It’s like staring at the Kyuubi no Kitsune with his senses open wide, like trying to grab a sail in the midst of a hurricane. Tobirama feels something shift, meld, merge. Memories slide into his mind, drops of water down the wall of a dark cave, and he breathes in air that’s clean and sharp with disinfectant. _Hospital wing_ , something in him whispers, not him, but not different, either.

His first instinct is to look, examine. Tobirama reaches for those not-quite-him bits, turns them over and around to look at them from every angle. _Magic_ , says one. _Academy of the Arcane Arts_ , says another, and mixed in between the two are feelings of disappointment, regret, envy and anger. There is a library foremost in his memories, like nothing in Konoha or Uzushio, like nothing he’s seen in his life, shelves standing one after the other and filled with heavy, dusty tomes.

Those memories call up pride, contentment, but also a whisper of _this is all I am good for, so I shall make do_. Tobirama wants to frown, because never in his life has he _made do_ —he’s always done better, pushed harder, tried a different path until he _accomplishes_ something. But this him—a second him, born somewhere else, _to_ something else—does not have that fierce drive, that pride. Instead, there is a bitter kernel of resentment in his heart, wound through with resignation.

He takes a breath and lets it out, even and measured, and shinobi instincts don’t allow him to flinch at the stab of pain that sparks along his back. There is…a memory there, of a fall, of a darkened staircase made of stone. An accident, except the other him, the fading slip of life that’s already sliding away, twists in indignant anger at the thought.

Not an accident, then, or he would prefer not to think of it as one.

Tobirama swallows, throat scratching dryly, and reaches for that last remnant of this body’s soul—because it’s not his body at all, is it? There's a whisper, like an apology, like too many regrets to voice in a single moment, and Tobirama tries to grasp it with mental fingers but it slides away, dissipating into nothingness with a feeling almost like relief.

 _No_ , Tobirama wants to cry, but the darkness behind his eyes is too heavy.

It’s a loss, despite the fact that it is a mirror of his own soul that passed. A death, for all that the body still lives with Tobirama inside of it. He wants to thrash, to protest, to call the soul-spark back, but it’s already too late. That last attempt at Hiraishin—uncontrolled, instinctual, borne on blind panic at the thought of that final moment of death—has brought him here, to another world entirely, landed Tobirama in the body of a self who was fading away, and he wonders if it is his presence that kept the previous occupant from hanging on.

 _Enough_ , he thinks viciously to himself, a Hokage who was born to war and died the same way, only afforded a handful of peaceful moments in between. Ruthlessly he seizes on the patchy memories of this world that remain, not allowing them to disappear into the same darkness that swallowed this world’s version of himself. They're undeniably different, he finds as he digs through them, only a moment of regret spared for the invasion of a dead man’s privacy. This entire _world_ is different, and he’s had enough experience with space-time jutsus to recognize an alternate dimension.

There is no chakra here, or if there is they call it magic. No Konoha, built on his brother’s dreams and his tireless effort. An Academy instead, not quite like the one Tobirama founded, but close enough—a school for magic, with students from all across the Elemental Countries. Thoughts of his brother spark memories, hazy and unconnected, but enough to remember _Headmaster_ and _sorcerer_ and _unparalleled in strength_. Little change, then, where Hashirama is concerned.

But the term also brings other memories with it, of Itama smiling brightly, a man with Hashirama’s height and breadth across the shoulders. Memories of Kawarama, more serious and thoughtful, but still prone to laughter, also grown into the man he should have survived to become. Tobirama’s breath hitches, and he feels it burn inside his chest, like hope, like grief and joy all tangled up.

 _My brothers are alive,_ he thinks, and after decades of life he should be used to the ache of their absence, but it’s a wound that never so much as scabbed over.

If trading chakra for this strange, half-similar magic is what it takes to get his little brothers back, Tobirama will make the sacrifice gladly.

Except…except that thought rings hollow, and Tobirama frowns inwardly, following the thin thread of connection deeper. That bitterness again, the ache of envy, all twisted up with pride and regret and disappointment. This version of Tobirama had no magic, despite his brothers being so strong in it. Not one drop of power in his veins, and his father’s rage at his useless son is so heavy Tobirama thinks he might choke on it.

 _Useless_ is the word that rings loudest in his ears, spoken in cruel jeers and mocking tones. The other him—he stood against it, railed, but…

Relief, Tobirama remembers, and it sours in his gut. A lifetime of not being good enough, of never being who he wished to, of being a target for every cruel word and sly blow, and perhaps Tobirama himself can't fathom such a choice, but then, he’s never lived with it, either.

Perhaps Tobirama’s presence wasn’t the only reason that spark of soul let go.

The anger and disgust—that people would treat _anyone_ in such a way, that no one stopped it even though they saw—drives him upward from the darkness, and he forces his eyes open even though his vision swims and blurs. Concussion, he concludes with barely a thought, experienced in such things after a lifetime as a shinobi, especially given the number of experiments he attempted in that time. The majority were far from successful, after all, without a vast amount of tweaking.

(He remembers his Hashirama’s despair, the first few years. Then his exasperation, his resignation, and finally his equanimity. By the time Tobirama perfected his Edo Tensei, he likely could have slogged into the house covered in rainbow scales and trailing rain clouds and Hashirama would hardly have batted an eyelash.)

That thought stings, just faintly. In his world Hashirama is years dead, killed by one of Madara's blows that festered with poison after their fight at the Valley of the End. Another loved one mourned, but alive in this world, and Tobirama wonders how he’ll react when they come face to face.

A consideration for another time, though. Tobirama pushes back the pain in his skull, because while it’s severe it’s not debilitating, and he sits up carefully, swinging his legs over the side of the narrow bed and then pausing to regain his equilibrium. Automatically he reaches out with a sensor’s instincts, seeking other signs of life, and in the half-instant before anything registers he realizes what he’s doing and resigns himself to nothingness.

But before he can even try to call his senses back, they unfurl just as they always do, sweeping across the world around him and limning things in a thousand shades of color. Humans glow brightest of all, touched with the red of fire, the opalescent shimmer of air, the blue of water, the deep brown of earth, the bright spark of electricity. Even from here Tobirama can sense Hashirama and his unique verdant green, can feel Mito wrapped up in water and fire. Tōka is earth with the barest hint of flame to warm it, while beside her—

Itama. Earth and water and the cool, soothing touch of healing charka-that-isn’t, side by side with Kawarama’s ozone-sharp lightning. They feel exactly as he remembers from so long ago, and Tobirama can't fight a smile. He draws his senses back, slowly, reluctantly, just relieved that he _can_ , that whatever caused magic to skip over the former occupant of this body, it has no bearing on his chakra.

Or—or perhaps, given the way this _magic_ seems like a skewed, off-center version of chakra, his body couldn’t use it, because it was already hosting _true_ chakra. They feel like Tobirama’s reserves because they _are_ , but they didn’t follow him from his world. They were already in the body here.

Tobirama is grateful, even though it feels like he should be regretful. To be in a strange world, relying on only a few fractured memories, with only his hand-to-hand skills to defend him—he doesn’t think he would handle it well at all. He is sympathetic to his counterpart’s suffering, but too much of a shinobi to let it rule him.

A breath to center himself, a hand on the wall for support, and—

“What in the _nine hells_ do you think you're doing, Senju!?”

Madara.

Tobirama tenses on instinct, grabbing for his chakra. In half a second he can have enough water crashing down on their heads to flood this entire wing of the school, and even if it won't stop Madara it may at least buy him time to—

A hand catches his elbow, an arm slides behind his back, and before Tobirama can so much as twitch he’s being lowered back to the bed, urged back onto the soft pillows. He blinks open eyes he hadn’t realized he closed—automatic, when facing the Sharingan—to find that the lines of Madara's face hovering above his don’t speak of rage and hate, but concern and aggravation. He’s dressed in red armor, as he was the last time Tobirama saw him, but the crest is different, not the Uchiha fan but Konoha's leaf, and that alone is enough to leave Tobirama dizzy with confusion.

“Madara?” he manages, and hopes the older man can't hear the helpless confusion in the word.

The concerned frown grows deeper, and Madara reaches up, ignoring Tobirama’s automatic flinch and tilting his head. Gentle fingers probe the back of his skull, feeling out the large lump there, and he scoffs. “Idiot Senju, this time you almost _died_. Are you _still_ going to say it’s none of my business?”

“I'm fine,” Tobirama says, knocking his hand away and sitting up again. His head still spins, but less this time—he’s already adjusting, adapting.

“You are _not_ ,” Madara disagrees aggressively, hands coming up as if he can't decide whether to push Tobirama back to the bed again or strangle him. “I'm the Captain of the Guard, and if people are _harassing_ you to the point where you _end up in the hospital wing every other week_ —”

How had Tobirama managed to forget how _loud_ Madara was? It’s been years since they were even nominally allies, but even so. Tobirama scowls at him, bats away another attempt to make him lie down, and rises to his feet. Madara squawks something that sounds pissed, but Tobirama isn’t paying attention to him anymore.

Hashirama is in the doorway, eyes wide and pained, clad in green and brown robes. He takes a step forward, hesitant, almost wary, and—

_You are the cause of all the misery in my life!_

His own voice, but not his words—Tobirama learned as a child that whatever words he spoke to someone could be the last they ever shared, and it was a lesson he took to heart. He would not have walked away from an argument like that, wouldn’t have let it get so severe to begin with. This world’s Tobirama, then, temper boiling under years of quiet, strangled resentment, finally unable to bear it any longer.

But this may as well be Tobirama’s own brother, hurt in a childish squabble, hovering at the edge of Tobirama’s room in the Senju compound and so very apologetic even for things that were never his fault. Tobirama takes a breath, sets aside all notions of continuing as this world’s Tobirama was intending to, and says with all the sincerity he can dredge up from the depths of his tired soul, “Brother. Forgive me.”

(He doesn’t intend for the words to mean as much as they do. _Forgive me for not saving you. Forgive me for not being better. Forgive me for not convincing you of Madara's intentions before he killed you. Forgive me for leading your village into a war so soon after its founding._ And he wonders, slightly, just how much of the previous Tobirama is in those three words. Much, he would like to think, because any version of himself dying without making peace with Hashirama—he can't bear to consider it.)

Hashirama’s eyes widen, then soften. He takes a step forward, another, until he’s right in front of Tobirama, and then reaches out, hand hovering uncertainly. When Tobirama makes no move to reject him, to push him away—the other him would have, but Tobirama is too glad to see any version of his older brother to even think of such a thing—he lets out a breath that’s nearly a sob and lunges, wrapping Tobirama up in his arms.

“Tobirama,” he chokes, grip tightening until it’s painful against the bruises on Tobirama’s spine. Tobirama doesn’t protest, though, simply raises his own arms and hugs Hashirama back, pressing his face into the thick black hair he brushed out so many times, took comfort in when his brother soothed away his nightmares. Hashirama is big and broad and sturdy, and Tobirama used to endure his hugs because he had to, but—

But Hashirama is years dead to him, lost forever, and this may not be _his_ Hashirama but it is certainly _a_ Hashirama, and that’s enough for him. This is some version of his brother back, still smelling of pine in summer and oak leaves in spring, furnace-warm beneath Tobirama’s touch.

“You scared me, Tobirama,” Hashirama finally manages to choke out, rough and strangled and full of genuine fear, the type Tobirama hasn’t heard from him since his first battle as a child of five. “Gods, when I heard they found you at the bottom of the staircase, and that you weren’t breathing—” He makes a quiet, desperate sound and presses his cheek to Tobirama’s temple, and his next breath shakes. “I thought—”

“ _I_ think this has gone on long enough,” Madara interjects, sounding grim. “Forget your damned pride, Senju; tell me who pushed you.”

Hashirama goes very, very still. His arms tighten again, and he says softly, “Tobirama?”

It’s a plea, Tobirama knows, for the words not to be true. He can still read his brother that well, even if it isn’t the version he grew up with. And he wants to say it was just clumsiness in a body not shinobi-trained, inattention at a crucial moment, but—

He remembers that quiet bit of relief as his counterpart slipped away into darkness, and raises his head to meet Madara's sharp black eyes. “I don’t remember,” he says.

The Uchiha’s mouth tightens, eyes narrowing—but, for the first time in Tobirama’s memory, the expression isn’t directed at him. Madara's gaze is distant, calculating, and with a sharp sound he turns on his heel, heading for the hall. “I’ll double the number of patrols in the castle,” he calls over his shoulder. “If you can tear your cousin away from making cow eyes at my brother, get her to check the wards for any discrepancies.”

“I think in this case it’s Izuna making the cow eyes at Tōka,” Hashirama calls back, amused and happy. It takes effort for Tobirama not to freeze in absolute horror, though; Tōka? And _Izuna_? He feels a little like he should gag, or possibly find Izuna and assassinate him as messily as possible.

Madara just harrumphs judgmentally, already around the corner and out of sight, and Hashirama chuckles softly. “I wonder what he’ll do when they get married,” he says a little wistfully. “I hope he doesn’t wreck too many floors.”

 _Like he did when they started dating_ , a small voice whispers in the back of Tobirama’s head, and he doesn’t question the knowledge. Just Tōka’s sanity. Though, from the fractured, fading memories of his alternate self, she’s…happy.

She never was in his world. Not really. And this Izuna is a teacher, not a shinobi who refuses to believe peace is an option. Tobirama can adjust.

Possibly.

(It’s not as though he has a choice, is it?)

He steps back, out of Hashirama’s hold, and very deliberately doesn’t allow himself to waver. “I think I should lie down,” he starts, and Hashirama immediately brightens.

“Yes, yes! I’ll call the nurse, and she can—”

“In my own rooms,” Tobirama finishes firmly, and ignores his brother’s faint wilt. At the sight of his kicked puppy expression, though—something Tobirama would have sworn, a decade ago, that he could never miss—he sighs, rolls his eyes, and adds blandly, “Walk me there?”

One would think he had handed Hashirama the world tied up with a neat bow, from the way he smiles. Tobirama huffs and looks away, mostly to hide his own smile; that expression on Hashirama’s face has always been at least a little contagious, after all.

When they step out into the hall, with Hashirama hovering and Tobirama trying not to inch out from under his fussing, a flash of red catches Tobirama’s eye. He turns, and Madara turns away, but—

That expression on his face. Concern and helplessness, and just a shadow of grief.

It makes something curl, uncertain, in Tobirama’s stomach as he looks away, determined to ignore it.

This world will take some getting used to.


End file.
